how a resurrection really feels.

This is how the future arrives: unaware of its own arrival, apprehended after the fact. Out of sight, the glance becomes all seeing, the mind able to replay the scene as if it were happening again and again but unrehearsed, a second time, a third, each a stand-in for the gone-before. Desire has such eddies, such snags. Only a future event can offer release from one pool into the next, the nameless one now assuming a name, the one without an address suddenly located among the addresses that were listed all along if only I knew where to look, a building I’ve walked past every day of my life, never knowing the future was simply waiting behind a door. It may have never happened, the future I was waiting for, waiting in, for out of the many possible futures, why not another? And why not many possible pasts if time indeed flows in both directions as some have said? The mind doesn’t work that way, I tell myself. The future, once it actually arrives, is the only past I’ll get to call my own. Waiting for the arrival of each word, but patiently, like Moses following the finger of God burning his irrevocable will into tablets of stone equal to a past he always already has read, that virginal reading relived again only in forgetting. As I have tried to forget your face, your hair, your name, and the place where our future was about to become, a future about to happen again and again, ever more sweetly, lest we forget.

- Timothy Liu, from Remind Me to Forget You (via holdonmagnolia)